Just another Baby Boomer
He looked around the room, and then at the computer that his son had bought him for Christmas. He hated the thing. It sat, staring at him, mocking his ineptitude, his lack of knowledge that came with old age. Her things were still scattered around their house, odd fragments she would have no use for, not anymore. Things that reminded her of him, he guessed. Things worth leaving behind. He wondered if he was wrong. If he had been wrong. People question these things all the time. Especially after fifty years of marriage. He tried to erase that last thought from his mind, but the empty room made his thoughts float too easily, impossible to revoke. He had always had these thoughts. But somehow life made it possible to stifle them.
He had met her, and he had loved her. Or whatever it was that you could feel at the age of sixteen. Then everything unfolded in exactly the way it should. They excelled in normality; a spring wedding bordered by lilac flowers and close friends. Two children, a boy and then a girl, both handsome and now very successful. There were holidays, and anniversaries, homes built and homes sold. Fights were brewed and love was made and all the while there was happiness. They were happy. Life moved at a pace too conventional to allow him to question any of it. But there were always moments. He remembered moments of curiosity. He remembered the cashier at the supermarket who always wore his pants low enough to display his lack of briefs, and that he had to force himself each time, to avert his gaze. He remembered taking his wife into the city each week for cocktails and jazz, but always choosing to smoke his cigars alone outside, so to watch the men with their wigs and their lavish attire standing street side, waiting, but never for long. He would admire these men and their flirtatious confidence, envying their feminine features. He would let his mind wander only far enough to cause a stir. A thick and sudden warmth would arouse from within. A familiar excitement that he’d learned to ignore could now awaken, allowing him, if only for a few moments, to feel a sense of release.
It wasn't until he found himself, staring admirably at his reflection, his lips rouged and glossy, his wife's clothes draped delicately across his weathered skin, that he knew it wasn't enough. The small rushes, the mild tingling, the constant longing; they could no longer sustain him. He was seventy years old, and he wasn't enough. It took almost a year to find the strength to tell his wife, the woman he loved, the mother of his children, his best friend, what he was. What was he? He wasn't him. Suddenly, the idea of saying it aloud felt explosive. He yearned to explore. Explore himself. Explore others. To feel the freedom to look, to linger, to touch. Anyone. Everyone. To be what he knew, to become what he wanted.
He had looked into her eyes and said the word, gay. He didn't fully understand what it meant, nor was he sure that he was. But the word fell soft, and she left quickly. And left behind, with most of her things, a layer of shame, that settled like dust into the carpets, and on the furniture, accumulating.
And now here he was, amidst the dust, lit by the glow of an unfriendly screen. They had always lived in a same small town. Now that she was gone, he was free to be himself. The idea was unsettling. It lacked promise. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. But, no one knew anything. Friends had voiced their condolences, their wives had offered him casseroles and their ex wives had offered him walks in the park. But what he truly desired was never offered, never known. It couldn't be. Not here. Not at his age.
The brightness of his computer felt invasive, and harsh. Where would he even begin? His son had created him a mail account of sorts. He had written it in his address book, along with the password; his wife's name. He opened a web browser by pressing the tiny compass at the bottom of the screen; that much he had remembered how to do. A search engine appeared. The cursor pulsed with expectation as he stared at the empty page. G-a-y. His left finger pressed cautiously on each key as he typed the three letters, and then hovered over the enter button. Delete, delete, delete. Sex with anyone. His fingers still hesitant, he pressed enter. The first line read, 291,000,000 results. He froze. His eyes scanned words like sex addict, and titles that boldly read, A Hole is a Hole! He quickly erased his words, and lit a cigar. The smoke that hung in the space between him and the computer felt comforting. He typed again. What am I? Riddles, and jokes, and cartoons of puppets and children flooded his screen. He tapped between two words and wrote, Sex. 716,000,000 search results appeared for What sex am I? As he scrolled the first page, each caption mentioned a documentary. He clicked, and footage, worn and cracking began to play. He saw women, almost unrecognizable behind beards and deep voices, and men dressed much like those he used to observe on the streets in the city. He listened, eyes fixed. These men were beautiful. These men had wives. These men had breasts.
A warmth began to rush over him again, this time steadily, and unwavering. He heard the utterance of a word, transgender, and paused the film. He searched for a year, a date from which this film had been made. 1985. He sat back in his chair. His cigar had burned through, leaving it’s ashes flaked, and hanging. The year became liquid in his mind, a wave washing over images of the past thirty-one years. He caught his reflection in the window and tried to remember what he had looked like. The tightness of his skin; it’s soft, olive tone. The gentle line of his jaw, and the way his hair curled behind his ears. His sunken flesh had now blurred the lines of his face, and what hair remained, had become coarse. But there was a subtle beauty in his features that had endured, and now with it, a faint glow. A glow of budding knowledge, of intrigue, but above all, acceptance. He looked once more at himself, smiled, and returning to his search, typed two words: Transgender Dating. He took a breath, and pressed the first link.